Christie Ridgway - Take My Breath Away

“I don’t want company.” A car pulled in front of Ryan’s, causing him to brake sharply. The vehicle at his rear honked in bad-tempered complaint. “Not my fault,” he muttered.

“You’re in So-Cal,” Linus said, relief in his voice. “I would recognize the sounds of our happy traffic anywhere.”

Ryan debated a moment, then decided giving Linus a little more info would do no harm. “I was actually at the lake house.”

“Yeah? You think you can stay out of trouble there?”

No, he thought, thinking of that photographer. “I handed over the keys to Anabelle and Grant for the weekend.” He didn’t need to add last names. They were one of Hollywood royalty’s brightest and most watched romances—“Granabelle.” Grant had been Ryan’s stalwart friend for the past four years, sticking by him when his mood was low, being the designated driver when he was looking for refuge in an alcoholic high. “Can you keep a secret?”

“I’ve never told anyone you grew up afraid of the purple-haired troll under the bed that only you could see, have I?”

“Its hair was green and you were too much of a pussy to lift the bedspread and take a look.”

Linus snorted. “I can keep a secret.”

“They’re getting married at the house over the weekend. Spur-of-the-moment and strictly family. To keep things as quiet as possible, I’m not even attending.”

“Good for them,” Linus said, then paused a moment. “How long do you suppose before one of their publicists spills the beans? Doesn’t Anabelle have a new movie coming out soon?”

Having reached the end of town, Ryan took the turn that would bring him to the highway and ultimately his rental. “There was already a paparazzo hanging out at the gates.”

“Shit,” Linus said. “Not that I’m surprised. But you’re going to stay clear of it now, right?”

“Right. But once I offered the house to Grant, I found the idea of the mountains appealed. So I’ve found another place to stay.”

“Yeah? Where—”

“I’m using the name Ryan Harris.” It was his go-to alias when he was attempting to stay under the radar.

“That’s all fine and good, but your face is as recognizable as your name.”

“She never watched TV growing up. Her favorite form of entertainment is reading.”

The silence on the other end went heavy, then ominous. “She?”

Ryan gave a little shrug. “I’m telling you, the woman doesn’t recognize me—has no idea I’m somebody anyone would recognize. She’s got a handful of cabins for rent and I’m the first and only guest.”

“She?”

“In her sixties, with a little pot belly and her hair in some sort of turban thing,” Ryan said smoothly. “She’s a chain-smoker.”

“For a famous actor, you lie for shit.”

“I haven’t been a famous actor for a decade.”

“You’re right. Now you’re just the famous part.”

Or, after what went down last year, infamous, Ryan thought, which was degrees more uncomfortable. “Anyway, I should probably go—”

“Like I’d let you get away with that. What’s she really like?”

Her face is as fresh as the mountain air. At the grocer’s he’d thought her no older than the teen clerk, and when he’d caught her staring thought he’d been made. But at the cabins he’d immediately deduced she was well past jailbait. Yet still so...natural. Her cheeks and the tip of her cute nose had been pink with cold, and hanging over the shoulder of her oversize and clearly secondhand army jacket had been a messy braid of hair the mixed colors of honey, sunlight and brandy. Wide gray eyes and a soft pink mouth made him think young again. Her wary expression suggested life had disappointed her once or twice.

“She’s not interested in me, if that’s your concern,” Ryan said to Linus. “I’ve barely glimpsed the woman in the three days since I had to bribe her with five times the going rental rate to take me in. Oh, and she has a dog she hints might kill me on demand. I’m pretty sure if the dog balks, she’ll be willing to do the job herself.”

“I think I’m in love.”

“Why am I not surprised.” At twenty-nine, Linus was always ready to play with the opposite sex...though when Ryan thought of it, he’d been remarkably woman-free for months.

“Maybe I should come see her—develop my own impression.”

“No.” His brother was fishing for a reason to check on Ryan. “I told you, I don’t want visitors.”

“What are you going to do, then?”

“Read books, hike around.” And if the past couple of days were anything to go by, stare out the window in case the wood nymph that lived next door made a rare appearance. “Nothing crazy this year.”

Linus sighed. “That’s great, Ry. Really great.”

But his brother didn’t sound convinced as he signed off, and Ryan had to admit he, too, had doubts about keeping the crazy at bay. Fucking March.

Back at the cabins there was something to distract him from his morose thoughts, he discovered. His landlady was outside, dressed in a pair of skintight jeans, sheepskin boots and a nubby sweater that rode up and down her hips as she gathered lengths of wood from a pile then tossed them into a wheelbarrow. As distractions went, it was pretty effective.

Nothing wrong with admiring a pretty sight, he told himself. Shutting off the SUV’s engine, he relaxed against the leather seat, taking in the whole scene: the backdrop of mountain, woods, snow. The foreground of the lovely lady. When her dog raced up to drop a clearly well-drooled-upon tennis ball at her feet, her obvious response—yuck—made him nearly smile. He couldn’t help but like that she scooped up the slimy ball and threw it, anyway.

When she began trundling the wheelbarrow toward his cabin, Ryan jumped from the SUV and hurried toward her. “Let me do that.”

She ignored him, continuing to push the contraption until it was right beside his porch. Then she set to stacking the wood against the cabin’s siding. As he bent to assist her, she slanted him a look. “I’ve got this.”

“I can help—”

“Part of the service.” The smallest of smiles poked a dimple in her left cheek. “You’re paying enough for it.”

Though he supposed he should go into the house and leave her to it, he stood another moment, watching her efficient movements. When Grimm came bounding up—no ball this time, but a stick—he rubbed the dog’s sides then threw the piece of wood into the trees. “Go get it, boy. Go get it.”

Still transferring logs, Poppy spared him another glance. “So...what is it you do?”

Oh, hell. He should have concocted a cover story. Writer of the Great American Novel? No way could he pull that off. A trial period as a Trappist monk? Not that, either, because he thought that would mean a vow of silence, which he’d obviously already broken. “Uh...”

“Forget I asked,” she said, her focus returned to the wheelbarrow. “None of my business, anyway.”

See, it was that indifference that made her the perfect landlady. As he’d told Linus, she wasn’t the least bit interested in him.

And it was stupid, how that rankled.

Just another reason he should go inside to his books and his resolution not to let his emotions rule him this month. Still, he hesitated. Inside, alone, the tearing pain might find him as it had last night, when it dug its talons in him during a dark and flame-filled dream, leaving him to wake in a cold sweat and overcome by grinding grief.

Poppy tossed another piece of wood on the stack. “Are you settling in okay? Our amenities are pretty stripped-down, I admit. Is there something else you need?”

He didn’t know what made him say it, and say it in such a low, seductive voice. “Are you offering turn-down service?”